Chum

Moe clears his throat. "So, tell me about this Maggie. What's she like?"

I hesitate, realizing I don't know as much about Maggie as I probably should. "She's... nice. Quiet, I guess. But she seems to really get Sam, you know?"

Ben nods. "They're always whispering and giggling about something. Inside jokes, I think."

"Sounds like a good friend," Moe says approvingly. "Sam needs that. Especially now."

The 'especially now' hangs in the air, loaded with all the things we're not saying. The dangers Sam faces, the secrets she keeps, the weight she carries on her too-young shoulders.

I take another gulp of wine, feeling it warm my chest. "I just wish..."

"Wish what?" Ben prompts when I trail off.

I wave my hand vaguely. "I don't know. That things were simpler, I guess. That Sam could just be a normal teenager with normal problems. Crushes and homework and... and not..." I can't bring myself to finish the thought.

Moe leans forward, his eyes serious. "Rachel, honey, there's no such thing as a normal teenager. Every kid has their struggles, their secrets. Sam's are just... a little more dramatic than most."

I laugh, a short, bitter sound. "A little more dramatic? Pop-pop, she's out there fighting criminals. Getting shot at. Coming home with bruises and... and God knows what else. That's not drama, it's... it's..."

"It's her life," Ben says quietly. "Whether we like it or not."

I deflate, feeling suddenly exhausted. "I know. I know it is. I just... I don't know how to protect her anymore."

Moe reaches out, patting my hand. "Maybe we can't protect her the way we used to. But we can support her. Be here for her when she needs us."

"And how do we know when that is?" I challenge. "She doesn't tell us anything anymore. Not really."

Ben shifts uncomfortably. "She tells us some things. Like... like that thing at the zoo the other day."

Moe perks up. "Ah yes, the evil dolphins. I've been meaning to ask about that. What exactly happened?"

I shrug, reaching for a cracker. "I don't really know. Sam was pretty vague about the details. Something about running into a villain who started ranting about the moral failings of dolphins? It didn't make much sense."

"Dolphins, huh?" Moe muses. "You know, there's actually some fascinating research about dolphin intelligence and social structures. Did you know they're one of the few animals that have been observed using tools?"

Ben latches onto this new topic with obvious relief. "Really? What kind of tools?"

As Moe launches into a detailed explanation of dolphin behavior, complete with animated hand gestures, I find my mind wandering. I think about Sam and Maggie, heads bent close together, whispering and giggling. I think about the way Sam's eyes light up when she talks about her "after-school activities" – the careful euphemism we've all adopted for her superhero work.

I think about the daughter I used to know, the one who would curl up next to me on the couch and read for hours. The one who used to tell me everything, from playground drama to her secret dreams. When did she become this strange, fierce creature I barely recognize sometimes?

"...and that's why some scientists argue that dolphins might actually have a complex moral system," Moe is saying as I tune back into the conversation. "It's all quite fascinating, really."

"It is," Ben agrees, looking genuinely interested. "I wonder if that's what that villain was getting at? Some kind of... I don't know, anti-dolphin agenda?"

I snort, the wine making me bolder. "An anti-dolphin agenda. God, listen to us. This is what our lives have become. Sitting around speculating about supervillains and dolphin morality while our teenage daughter is out there..." I wave my hand vaguely, encompassing all the unknown dangers Sam might be facing.

Ben reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly near mine before retreating. "Rachel, we can't... we can't control everything. We have to trust Sam."

"Do we?" I challenge, earning a couple of blinks from Ben.

Moe sighs heavily. "The world isn't what it used to be, Rachel. Kids today are dealing with things we never could have imagined."

"That doesn't make it right," I insist. "We're her parents. We're supposed to protect her."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Ben asks, a rare edge of frustration in his voice. "Lock her in her room? Take away her powers somehow? We can't change what she is, Rachel."

I deflate, the fight going out of me. "I know. I know we can't. I just... I miss her, Ben. I miss my little girl."

Moe clears his throat. "She's still your little girl, Rachel. She's just... growing up. Finding her place in the world."

"Some world," I mutter, reaching for the wine bottle again.

Ben gently intercepts my hand. "Maybe that's enough for tonight, hon."

I want to argue, but the concern in his eyes stops me. Instead, I nod, letting my hand fall back to my lap.

Moe stands up, stretching with a groan. "Well, I don't know about you two, but all this heavy talk has worked up my appetite. How about we start on those sandwiches? Sam and Maggie will probably be hungry when they get here."

Ben nods, looking relieved at the chance to do something practical. "Good idea, Dad. I'll get started."

As they head to the kitchen, I remain on the couch, staring at the half-empty wine glass in front of me. The room feels too big suddenly, too quiet. I can hear Ben and Moe in the kitchen, their voices a low murmur punctuated by the occasional clatter of dishes.

I pick up my phone again, scrolling through old photos. Sam at her bat mitzvah, grinning wide despite the braces. Sam and Kate at the beach two summers ago, before everything changed. Sam on her first day of high school, trying so hard to look cool and grown-up.

My throat tightens as I swipe through the images. When did she get so old? When did I stop being able to fix everything with a hug and a band-aid?

"Rachel?" Ben calls from the kitchen. "Do you want turkey or roast beef?"

I take a deep breath, pushing down the swirl of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "Turkey," I call back. "And extra mustard."

As I stand up, my phone buzzes with a notification. It's the tracking app we installed on Sam's phone – a necessity in these tense times. She's about ten minutes away, walking. Enough time for one more difficult conversation.

I make my way to the kitchen, where Ben and Moe are assembling sandwiches with the careful precision of men avoiding harder topics.

"Sam's about ten minutes out," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "She's bringing Maggie," I repeat, almost blindly.

Ben nods, carefully aligning the edges of a slice of cheese with the bread beneath it. "That's good. Maggie's a nice girl."

"Yeah," I agree, then hesitate. The wine has loosened my tongue, made the fears I usually keep buried bubble to the surface. "Do you ever worry... I mean, with everything that's happening... do you think Sam might..."

I trail off, not sure how to voice the fear that's been gnawing at me. Moe looks up, his eyes sharp despite the late hour and the wine.

"Might what, Rachel?" he prompts gently.

I swallow hard. "Might turn out like... like my father?"

The kitchen goes silent. Ben's hands freeze mid-sandwich assembly, and Moe's expression darkens. They both know who I mean, even though we rarely speak of him.

"Rachel," Ben starts, his voice soft but firm. "Sam is nothing like that man."

"I know," I say quickly. "I know she's not. It's just... the violence, the fighting. It scares me sometimes. The way she throws herself into danger without hesitation."

Moe sets down the knife he's been using to spread mayonnaise, his movements deliberate. "Your father," he says, and I flinch at even this oblique reference, "was a cruel man who hurt people because he wanted to. Sam helps people because she has to. There's a world of difference there."

I nod, blinking back tears. "I know. Logically, I know that. But sometimes I see her come home with bruises, or hear about the fights she's been in, and I just..."

"You worry," Ben finishes for me. "We all do. But Sam has something your father never did."

"What's that?" I ask.

"Us," Moe says simply. "She has a family who loves her, who supports her. Who will always be here to remind her of who she really is."

I want to believe them. I desperately want to believe that love and support are enough to keep the darkness at bay. But I remember the wild look in my father's eyes the night he crashed our wedding, the casual way he fought through Ben's drunken cousins and relatives just to throw an envelope of money at our feet and leave without a word. The way he won.

"It's not genetic, you know," Ben says, as if reading my thoughts. "Violence isn't something that's passed down like... like eye color or height. It's learned. And Sam..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Sam has learned compassion. Bravery. Self-sacrifice. Those are the things she's inherited from you, Rachel."

I feel a lump form in my throat. Before I can respond, we hear the front door open.

"Mom? Dad? We're home!" Sam's voice calls out, followed by the sound of shoes being kicked off and coats being hung up.

Just like that, the moment shatters. I straighten up, plastering on a smile as Sam and Maggie appear in the kitchen doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold.

"Perfect timing," I say, my voice only slightly strained. "We were just finishing up the sandwiches. Are you girls hungry?"

As Sam launches into a story about their walk home, punctuated by Maggie's quiet laughter, I catch Ben's eye over their heads. He gives me a small, reassuring nod.

The fears aren't gone. They probably never will be. But for now, in this moment, with my family gathered in our too-new kitchen, I let myself believe that we're going to be okay. That love really can be stronger than the shadows of the past.

I hand Sam a plate, our fingers brushing as she takes it. Her hands are strong, calloused in ways I try not to think about too hard. But they're also gentle. Caring. Nothing like the hands I remember from my childhood.

"Thanks, Mom," Sam says, smiling up at me. And in her eyes, I see only warmth. Only love.

I have to.